Where Real Drama Comes From

No one likes a drama queen. We all have ‘em in our lives — that person who’s forever casting tiny things as great big problems, and getting everyone riled up over what turns out to be a bucket of nothing. They can be fun to watch for a bit, but they’re ultimately exhausting. It doesn’t take long to realize that those “great big problems” of theirs have no real consequence, which means that they aren’t problems at all.

Real drama is something else altogether. And – here’s the surprising thing – real drama very often has little to do with big, externally dramatic events – real or imagined. Real drama is internal, and that is the kind of drama that stories are about.

Think of real drama as the internal struggle that the plot catapults your protagonist into, forcing her to take action whether she wants to or not. If taking that action doesn’t cost your protagonist dearly on a deep emotional level, then it’s not a problem. Nor is it a story. Even if, on the surface, something big happens.

For instance, your protagonist might expect a completely normal day, and instead meets the love of her life at the bus stop, forever changing the course of her life in every way. Sounds huge, doesn’t it? But unless it mucks up something just as important to her, or unless there’s something she now has to overcome in order commit to her new found beloved, who cares? There’s a reason why stories never begin with “and they lived happily ever after.” Without internal conflict – without something crucial at stake — we not only can’t learn anything from her, we’re not really interested.

It’s a simple equation: No problem, no clear-cut impending consequence that will cost the protagonist big time, no story. It’s something everyone tends to get in theory, but in practice it can be difficult to pull off. Which is why writers often come up with a general struggle for their protagonist – a struggle anyone would have, given the situation – with a general consequence to boot.

For instance: imagine that your protagonist is a woman who, she’d be the first to admit (in great detail over a glass or two of wine, if you have a moment), has unresolved issues with her old college boyfriend. She knows he’s gone, but she can’t quite forget him, heaven knows she’s tried. Still, she’s done okay for herself. She has a good job, a nice apartment, and a very cute pooch that she can count on. All is good. Until she opens the door to walk Fido before heading off to work, and there stands her old boyfriend, looking sheepish. Their eyes lock and he says, “I think I made a big mistake. We need to talk.” Wow. Definitely breaks a pattern, which is good. Definitely not what she expected, which is good. Definitely spurs inner conflict, which is good. All the makings of riveting drama seem to be here.

But dig a little deeper and we unearth the problem of the general. What’s at stake, exactly? What might be the consequence, the fallout, of this encounter? That she’s late for work, or maybe even calls in sick? And so? Would that matter? Who knows? While in real life, your heart would be wildly pounding at a moment like this, in a story, it feels a tad tepid. As a reader, would you be curious about what happens next? How could you be, when you don’t know what the options are, or, more importantly, what is at stake for these people. Close your eyes. Can you picture anything? You know, other than the two of them standing there in the doorway and maybe the dog yanking on the leash?

Without a rapidly approaching specific consequence, your protagonist can kick back, relax, and decide to deal with it all later. Our gal, above, could agree to talk to her old boyfriend while she walks the dog, decide to meet him for lunch, offer to make him his favorite meatballs and spaghetti on Saturday night. Trouble is, your reader isn’t going to sit around for page after page waiting for her to decide. Without something forcing her to take action, there’s no reason to care and nothing to root for.

So let’s start with the same scenario, but in this version our protagonist has worked hard to put her old boyfriend behind her. She’s made a new life for herself. She’s CEO of her own startup, and she’s madly in love with the CEO of another. They’re the talk of the town, tech-wise, and they’re getting married tomorrow. In fact, in an hour his driver is scheduled to pick her up and take her to the airport, where his private jet will fly her to Rio where the wedding party is already gathering (geez, these aren’t very energy conscious people, are they?). Anyway, she hears a knock, and thinking the driver is early, flings open the door to find…her old college boyfriend. The one she’s never been able to quite forget, despite the great new guy she’s about to marry. Their eyes lock. He looks panicked, sheepish, and then, determined. “I think I made a big mistake,” he says, “we have to talk!” Wow again, but it’s very different this time, because we know what’s at stake.

You can see the shape of the story. You can feel this woman’s struggle, and instantly begin imagining the possible consequences. This time the reader’s heart might be pounding a little bit, too. They’re curious. They want to know will happen. Will she invite him in? (Oh, of course she will.) Then kick him out? Ask him to ride with her to the airport? And what about the groom? Will she let him know? Confess her confusion? Call off the wedding? As you can see, the reader isn’t simply interested in what will happen now, they’re also dying to find out how it will impact the protagonist’s future (hey, maybe she’ll decided not to go to Rio, thus reducing her carbon footprint, you never know!).

Not only can you begin to anticipate what this woman might lose should she opt to ditch the startup guy for her old college boyfriend, you know that she hasn’t much time to decide, either. Pretty breathless! Especially since there’s nothing like a rapidly approaching deadline to focus the mind and spur action that we might not otherwise take. Point being: there’s a lot at stake here for the protagonist, and that’s exactly where genuine drama comes from – unavoidable, escalating internal conflict.

And make no mistake, that internal drama must be apparent from very first page. That means you must be sure that the opening salvo of your novel is just the tip of an iceberg guaranteed to command your protagonist’s attention for a good long while, rather than a single, melting ice cube that she might slip on, then get up, dust herself off and walk away unscathed. For good or for ill, that first salvo must scathe her.

But while what happens on there on the first page must be a big deal, that doesn’t mean it must be an external big deal, as in a birth, death or call from the IRS. It simply means it’s a big deal as far as your protagonist is concerned — provided, of course, she’s not a drama queen.

What about your novel — or even the novel you’re reading now — what is at stake for the protagonist right there on the first page?

I love putting this kind of teaching into my brain first thing in the morning! Thank you, Lisa. In the opening paragraph of my story, the protagonist, who is the inheritor of her father’s ancient family Myth, is after a piece of Pixie magic so she can defend herself against a school bully. Rejected emotionally by her mother for being ‘Gifted’, she’s taken refuge in the feeling of belonging she gets from the Myth, and of being connected to something so powerful. But when the ancient struggle of the Myth manifests in her sleepy NJ town, she has to decide what she really believes, and what she’s willing to lose to in order to protect the people she loves. It took me a long time (plus Wired for Story and other posts like this one from you and Don) to see that her initial desire could simply be to get even with some kid at school, but that underneath that simple need was an enormous longing for acceptance and love. Knowing this has made the current revision an entirely different experience.

I always appreciate a twist in the meanings of conflict and drama – that neither needs to be a battle or a car crash. That beneath the surface of the character there’s a much deeper interior. I seek to write a little depth in my stories, and avoid the superficial.

Let’s see…big drama is not external but personal. Check. Big drama is big because big (personal) things are at stake. Check.

I love your example of the woman with the repentant college boyfriend at the door.

Now, as a reader I know what I’m expecting. I even know what I want. I want her to miss the plane, make the spaghetti and meatballs, a cute (but not easy) reconciliation, and for Mr. Tech Billionaire to reveal he’s actually a jerk who’s unworthy of her.

So here’s my question for you, Lisa: My expectations as reader are for what is obvious. I long for the cutesy romance formula story to unfold. You’ve set me up for that. How, then, do you keep the drama big when the stakes have no room to rise and outcome is known?

Raise the stakes still further? For example, the reader doesn’t yet know that they had a child together, and that College Boyfriend vanished with said kid? Our heroine borrowed a zillion from her fiancé and now two hundred people’s livelihood depend on her paying him back by bank and bed? College Boyfriend himself owes money, is on the lam and Secret Daughter needs to be hidden from Evil Kidnapper Guys?

All those would work to keep the stakes rising but they are external pressures, not internal need. Can you give me an example of how you’d keep your heroine’s stakes rising from *inside*?

I’m not Lisa (obviously), but here’s how I’d keep the stakes high without evil kidnappers: the heroine needs to fight against herself.

The one piece missing from this theoretical scenario, which I’m sure Lisa would have added if she were actually writing the book, is the heroine’s character–her worldview and fatal flaws. That’s where the real drama comes from.

For example, maybe this woman’s pride is very important to her. Her ex hurt her pride by leaving her for a job in another state. When he shows up on her doorstep, her heart pounds wildly, but her pride makes her treat him coldly. The drama through the middle comes from her fighting to preserve her pride even if it hurts her, then fighting to overcome her pride so they can be together.

Or maybe loyalty is very important to her. Her ex stupidly hooked up with another girl at a college party, so she despises cheating more than anything. But she’s increasingly tempted to betray her fiance, and she feels incredibly guilty about it, so she pushes the ex away even as it becomes clear he’s her soulmate.

The ex should also come with a few flaws and internal conflicts he needs to overcome. Those internal conflicts will make the reconciliation dramatic, without the need to resort to secret children and mafia goons.

I think trust is also very important. She loves him but cannot trust that old boyfriend so she has to leave him behind. She internally struggles with being able to trust again. Maybe she calls off the wedding at the last second, or maybe she doesn’t, later regrets it. Maybe she continues to struggle with trust issues, is finally able to start to trust her ex boyfriend and ends up with him in the real happily ever after.

Thanks, Lisa. This is always tough for me. I like the set-up before that inciting incident. The question is how to combine a good set-up (without the much hated backstory) and inciting incident in one opening chapter?

My current wip begins with my young protagonist sitting on his front porch (the title is Porch Pick-up), contemplating the uselessness of his life. He already has nothing to lose. So I’m bringing in his neighbor, a girl 4 years his junior and adores him. Is it fair to make the potential loss hers?

The story does involved some time-travel elements (more like Interstellar), so it will be revealed at the end that she is his future wife and they will accomplish great things together, but how to show that in chapter one. That’s my challenge.

I believe nobody has nothing to lose. People might think they have nothing to lose, but everyone has something they don’t realize or won’t admit is very important to them–especially teenage boys!

I don’t know anything about your story, but if I were writing it, I would show that your hero really does care about something, even if he’s convinced himself he’s totally cool. Maybe he secretly cares about his neighbor, but his pride and nihilistic worldview are too important to him to show it. He pushes her away, but in a moment of danger he rushes to help her without thinking, then kicks himself for it later.

I’m not sure who said it, but someone clever described conflict as “something that gets in the way of what a character wants.” Higher stakes and bigger consequences generally equal more drama, but only if those consequences will bring the character closer to or take her farther away from what she wants (i.e., happiness). I’ve read plenty of books in which all of time and space will implode if the hero doesn’t make the right decision, and still I’m like, meh. I’ve also read quiet books in which seemingly inconsequential decisions leave me in a puddle of tears.

In your example of the woman choosing between two suitors, what’s the obstacle to what she wants? Is she this close to securing her dream life with her kind and loving fiance, but her ex could ruin everything? Or does she secretly crave a quiet life with her ex, but her guilt towards her fiance makes her resist the call of true love?

Or is the boyfriend’s “big mistake” unrelated to their romantic history, and he instead needs the heroine’s help as a super sleuth to prove him innocent of murder? Please say yes, because that would be much more interesting to me than a love triangle. I don’t believe a woman’s happiness hinges on marrying the right guy, so it’s hard for me to care whether Heroine A chooses Suitor B or Suitor C. But I would care if choosing Suitor B means leaving Suitor C to rot in prison, while choosing Suitor C means ruining her future–so her moral duty becomes an obstacle to her happiness.

Perfect timing with this article (freaky how often that happens with Writer Unboxed). I recently was able to identify the true antagonist in my WIP and realized that I had robbed my protagonist of the opportunity to truly confront him–because he dies early on in the book. And I had just started thinking about how I might need to consider letting him live, and then this post comes along. It confirmed for me that, yes, he needs to live, yes, she needs to confront him, and, on top of that, a clock needs to be ticking. Thank you. I always love your posts, Lisa.